


valley of sorek

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Injury, M/M, because oikawa fondles both, is this oiten(dou) or oiten(don)?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7802929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was eighteen, all Tooru wanted was another chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	valley of sorek

**Author's Note:**

> title from the biblical story of samson and delilah
> 
> inspired by a certain twitter post

As a rule, athletes are masochists. When Tooru slides his fingers under the heavy foam of his knee brace, he traces the muscles he's come to know by heart in the hollow of the joint: origin, insertion; muscle, tendon, bone. He wonders every time at the sudden give as he slips over taut fibre into the soft tissue beneath.

 

_Don't work too hard,_ Makki calls. They both know it's an empty statement -- there's hard work, and then there's too hard, and the only difference between the two is whether it was worth it in the end. Still, he finds himself rubbing his patellar during class, pressing down to check for pain or inflammation. He kneads his knuckles into the tendons he finds there, works his way around until he's bruised them simply from the force of his examination. It means he can't tell which burn comes from practice, which found its origin in the deep jabs he applies like a salve to his thigh.

 

It's not a habit.

 

It's more of an obsession, really. Habit implies a lack of purpose, and every time Tooru grabs hard and clenches, he's feeling the volleyball under his thumb. He's saying _don't you dare give in, shut up, I need this_. And it works, for a time.

 

He doesn't make Nationals in his first year of university, shut down by giants bigger than Ushiwaka ever was. It dawns on him that Miyagi, in spite of how much talent has burst from it, is a small, small prefecture. His knee holds, but it never quite recovers, either, and bit by bit _good enough_ stops being _good_ , stops being _enough_.

 

_I don't want to quit,_ Tooru grits out over the phone to Iwa-chan. _I don't want --_

 

Life has never been about what Tooru has wanted.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

When he was eighteen, all Tooru asked for was another chance. First year, the end of the season, he asks to never need one again.

 

Life gives him something entirely different.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

Tendou Satori is sharper than Ushiwaka, and far more aware of his own arrogance. He spies Tooru across the court at practice the week of his transfer and calls out _you're the one who never made it_.

 

"Free pass," their captain tells Tooru, quirking a grin. "If you want."

 

Tooru aims his next serve right at Tendou's crotch. It's easily deflected -- Tendou has ample time to swing his arm around and shield -- but it hits hard enough to bruise, and that's well worth the residual sting of Tooru's palm.

 

Tendou rubs his arm and stares at Tooru in consideration. "I can see why Wakatoshi wanted you on the team," he says, but Tooru hadn't done it for the _acknowledgement_.

 

"Any team Ushiwaka's on isn't much of a team." He knows that's not strictly true anymore -- Tooru can't help turning up to the gym even when he won't be the one on the court, so he's seen Ushiwaka make an effort to concede. _Tobio-chan's influence, probably,_ he thinks, _and Chibi-chan's._

 

"He's gotten better," argues Tendou, which is more of an admission than Tooru had expected. "Besides, can you blame him? He's Miracle Boy Wakatoshi."

 

Tooru sniffs, lifts his chin defiantly. "He's going to need a miracle to take us out this year, at least."

 

And Tendou's face slips into a slit-eyed smirk. "Yeah," he agrees. "You've got Tendou Satori on your team this year."

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

They lose their first game of the season. Tendou blocks all the wrong places, leaves gaps wide enough to fit Ushiwaka's enormous ego. Maybe it's an overreaction, but some traitorous part of Tooru had seen Shiratorizawa and thought _maybe with him_. Maybe it's not fair to Tendou, but Tooru sees Nationals retract back into the region of _unreachable_ and it's enough to make his fingers close tight over Tendou's wrist.

 

"Don't you dare mess this up," he hisses.

 

Tendou yanks free. "Piss off," he says, while Tooru's still reeling from the feel of Tendou's muscles snapping back under his hand. "You're just scared we won't make it."

 

For the first time, Tooru understands what Mattsun had meant when he said _I wouldn't want to be friends with you_.

 

"Don't worry." Tendou points at himself. "I'm an expert at dealing with scary things. Y'know, I once watched The Ring because Samara's actress was cute. "

 

"I don't care," Tooru says, and, because he can't help himself, "What else have you watched?"

 

Tendou reels off a list of movies, but none of them are part of the _Alien_ franchise, so Tooru doesn't have to guilt himself over hating a potential space-loving comrade. Unfortunately, Tendou seems to take Tooru's question as an invitation to act _friendly_ , when Tooru would a thousand times rather have won the damned match. Tooru is mature enough now not to snap at him in public, but he seethes over the phone later, about people who don’t care about volleyball but are brilliant during practice, who talk big and act big but can’t even pick an obvious decoy in a real match. “And he went to Nationals,” Tooru whines, gripping the phone tighter.

 

“It’s one game,” Iwaizumi tells him. “Watch it over and tell him all the reasons he sucks at practice tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, and Tooru says _yes, mother_ without meaning it. He sits with his knees tucked up against his chin watching the video, and the most infuriating thing is that even when Tendou is playing at his worst, he’s still good. Better than the regular middle blockers, even. Tooru remembers that Tendou’s university made Nationals last year. He can see the moments where Tendou shifts to accommodate a presence larger than his current team can provide.

 

_You should have stayed there,_ Tooru begins, but he remembers _you should have come to Shiratorizawa_.

 

The reason doesn’t matter -- what _does_ matter is the loss. Strangely enough, Tooru feels better after watching the tape. He taps out a _thanks, Iwa-chan_ and replays so he can focus on the rest of the team. Tendou is easy, now. He just needs some time to assimilate.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

Tooru still hates him. Tendou knows exactly when Tooru’s steps are dragging even a little, and he’s not afraid to tattle. Tooru becomes more familiar with the bench than he wants to, especially when he rubs his thigh absently and knows he’s played through worse aches.

 

“You have to look after yourself, Tooru.”

 

Tendou’s on first-name terms with the whole team. He dishes out nicknames as freely as Tooru does. His nicknames are actually adopted by the team, though they’re ten times lamer than Tooru’s. And he plays every practice without getting injured -- he only ever stays late once a week, and he’s showing himself to be better every match they win. He’s National standard, and he knows it.

 

When Tooru watches, in person and on tape, he can’t help thinking about how _thin_ Tendou’s skin seems. Every muscle movement causes a visible shift, and although Tendou is slender, he’s powerful, too. His jumps stretch higher than they logically should; Tooru freezes on a block and traces the unbroken line of muscle from Tendou’s ankles all the way to where it disappears under his shorts. Then he looks at his own legs, a fraction more shapeless, and he wiggles his hamstring tendons to remind himself he does have _some_ muscle, at least.

 

Tendou has more. Tendou has always had more -- more talent, more success, more ability to shake off his fears and follow his instinct. Tooru has been trying to hone that sort of game sense all his career. Every match reminds him of what he is missing.

 

Tendou is everything Tooru wants and nothing of it all at once, and Tooru _hateshimhateshimhateshim_ \--

 

\-- until one day he doesn’t. Rather, Tendou doesn't give him the chance to, once he figures he can lure Tooru in with alien stories and make him stay with blackmail on Ushiwaka. "You should read this manga," he enthuses, while Tooru is _trying_ to pack away his gear. "It's JUMP, but it's got aliens, right, and the lead guy is crazy hot, especially when he -- "

 

"Wait," says Tooru, taken aback. "What are you, gay?"

 

Tendou squints. "Yeah. Aren't you?"

 

“ _No_ \-- "

 

“Liar,” Tendou says, and he smiles, wicked. “I can tell.”

 

“You _wish_ \-- ”

 

Tendou leans in, leering, and Tooru folds his arms over themselves by instinct, twists the muscle to calm his nerves. He sees a flash of uncertainty cross Tendou’s eyes before he shakes it away and grips Tooru’s shoulders.

 

He’s so _strong_. Tooru uncurls and strokes the veins on Tendou’s forearm, as if he could feel the blood pulsing slowly through them back to Tendou’s heart. “Tooru?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

The universe has never done what Tooru asks of it, and neither has Tendou. “Sorry,” he starts. An irrational surge of anger runs through Tooru’s mind -- he'll apologise for _this_ , but not for that abysmal guess in the second set of the last game when they were down 24-23 -- but Tendou backs away, pulling out of Tooru’s grasp. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he continues, “if you’re, well.”

 

Tooru becomes acutely aware of how much he misses having Tendou under his skin, how much he wants to feel that strength under his grasp. “You’re not wrong,” he says. It comes out more tired than he anticipated.

 

Tendou waves him off. “Nah, don’t worry about it. We can stick to talking aliens, JUMP, and Wakatoshi, minus the homoerotic undertones.”

 

“There are no _homoerotic undertones_ in our conversations about Ushiwaka-chan,” Tooru splutters. It makes Tendou grin, because of course that’s the exact response he’d been wanting, and Tooru thinks _okay_ , thinks _it’s about time I got what I wanted_. “You’re not wrong, Satori-chan,” he says. “You’re not wrong about anything, here.”

 

Tooru reaches out and tastes what it feels to _win_.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

After a time, Tooru stops feeling so much like a winner and starts feeling more like he’s on the verge of an upset. They place a respectable fifth in the intercollegiate, which means Nationals, _finally_ , but it also means that Satori begins treading more over the line that still screams _genius_ to Tooru. Their whole team lifts with him, buoyed by the thought of the All-Japan trophy, but Tooru’s spending more time on the bench calling plays _to_ them rather than with them. He’s good, they’re good -- they win.

 

They win without his serve.

 

Their coach takes him aside after their first round match and says _good call, you’ve picked up Tendou’s weaknesses well, I know you want to play but the team’s really improved with you observing, take your time and we’ll have you out when you’re back at 100%, have you ever considered coaching as a career._ It’s the last one that hits Tooru like a loss to Shiratorizawa.

 

Satori doesn’t ask. He watches, though, and maybe he understands a little better what Tooru needs from this tournament now that they’re spending more time together off the court. “You should get Tooru out here sometime,” he tells the coach, only a little pointedly. Tooru still glares, because he shouldn’t need Satori to secure his place on the court for him.

 

“How’s the knee?” Coach asks, and Tooru says _fine, ok_ , whatever it takes to be a part of the team when they face Ushiwaka and Tobio-chan at Nationals. “Don’t overdo it.”

 

Tooru grips his knees hard before he lifts off the bench. “It’s fine.” It doesn’t have to be forever. Tooru knows better than any of them the countdown written into his skin. He feels it, after all, in the way his hand shakes after a hard serve, the way his ankles twinge on the landing. If he can make it to the end of the season -- if he can make it to the end of the trophy match, and win.

 

_All I want_ , he thinks, and then stops. The universe won’t hear him, and he has nothing to tell it, anyway.

 

_Tell me Ushiwaka's weakness,_ he demands of Satori instead, and Satori laughs at his envy, calls him a sore loser. When Tooru fakes offense and turns to leave, Satori grabs his wrist and says _you're cute,_ pulling him into a tight hold. His heart pulses strong against Tooru’s shoulder, his legs shifting under them.

 

Tooru twists around and kisses him. He drags Satori down by the nape of his neck and keeps him there, half a minute, one minute, time, and Satori’s panting when they part. Tooru gives him a moment to rest and then leans in again, revelling in the knowledge that this is one battle he can still win.

 

"You never quit," Satori pants, a tremulous smirk flitting over his face. He looks pained, breath drawn tight -- Tooru digs his fingers deeper into the thin cords of muscle he finds at Satori's neck and pulls him closer. The pushback comes from Satori's core, his hips snapping tight as he strains to keep himself from collapsing against Tooru's chest. It's a strength that threatens more to overwhelm Tooru with each passing day.

 

“If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it all the way.” _Until it breaks_ , Tooru thinks. He’s been throwing himself at these walls for years now, only to find himself tangled in nets, caught between wanting and not being good enough to receive. He supposes any sane person would stop.

 

But athletes aren’t athletes without the ability to work through pain. So Tooru figures he’ll keep training until he can’t, and then he’ll train Satori, who’s strong and has the talent -- who won’t break halfway through. Instead of reaching for his own knees, Tooru reaches for Satori. It might take the rest of his life, but one day maybe he’ll even be able to take that strength for himself.

 

“You wanna go all the way?” Satori asks, wriggling his eyebrows, and Tooru laughs.

 

“Why not?”


End file.
